


One Two Three

by KingOfTheCliche



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Domestic, Domestic Disputes, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Johnlock, M/M, Money, Waltzing, bare with me, eventually explicit, rich people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:16:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4924633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingOfTheCliche/pseuds/KingOfTheCliche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a rich IT-billionaire comes to Sherlock and John to get their help to retrieve her stolen usb stick, Sherlock and John have no choice but to immerse themselves in a decadently opulent world. John almost freaks out. Sherlock is weirdly okay with all of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I know you

**Author's Note:**

> I had to babysit my little sister (who is three) and after I ran out of "Let's disguise ourselves" ideas we sat down and watched Disney's original Sleeping Beauty. The music got stuck in my head. Hence, this fic.

London Autumns, as with all London weather, were unpredictable at best and capricious most of the time. Today was the first day of October, but for all appearances the sky was coloured a fairy-tale blue with not a cloud in sight. A cool breeze kept the mood of the city uncharacteristically high, including that of the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street. John had cracked both the kitchen and the living room window to let some air in. He was sitting on the ground with various organized piles of paper in front of him on the coffee table, a position he had been forced into because Sherlock had commandeered the desk to do – something. John wasn’t sure what exactly Sherlock was doing. He couldn’t be bothered to ask either, because he was getting slightly worried over the papers in front of him. John retrieved his phone from his pocket and started the calculator app, even though he had a perfectly good calculator staring up at him from the coffee table.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, without moving his head.

“You know what I’m doing.” John couldn’t keep his voice from sounding annoyed. He’d lost his calculation and started over.

Sherlock remained still for a second, most likely out of shock, but then he got up and moved to stand behind John, who hadn’t anticipated Sherlock moving and lost his calculations once again.

“You’re worrying about finances”, Sherlock stated. “Why would you worry about finances?” His voice took on a tone that clearly informed John what Sherlock thought about his being occupied by such a plebeian subject.

John took a deep breath and made to stand up. Unfortunately, his leg had fallen asleep during his time on the floor and Sherlock had to reach out for both his arms to steady him after he buckled and almost fell face first into the coffee table. Sherlock’s hands were warm on his skin, something John oddly could feel through his shirt. Something cracked in his knee, a sound too loud in the suddenly quiet room. Sherlock was observing his face for any signs of pain, but John knew better than to display weakness and lose ground on the argument they were inevitably going to have in a second. He remained impassive, although Sherlock’s large thumbs swiping over his veins made that quite the task.

Sherlock blinked, but didn’t move away. “Careful”, he murmured, while he helped John sit down on the sofa.

John, now effectively embarrassed, freed his underarms from Sherlock’s grip and grabbed the topmost document from the pile. “Sherlock, listen,” he began carefully but firmly, “we need to think these things through. I know they’re unpleasant and you’d rather not, but it’s become more and more necessary.”

Sherlock remained standing while John spoke, his face blank and his eyes focused somewhere around John’s.

“We haven’t saved anything in September.” John showed him the document he was holding, which Sherlock took, but barely glanced at. “I thought it was okay, because we’d saved some money in July with the Fried Piper case and all that, but we haven’t saved money in August either and we’ve barely had cases since.” He unstuck a post-it note from the table and glared at it. “Which means that we can afford to do groceries exactly twice before we have to break open the piggy bank I was trying to plump – _we_ were trying to plump”, he corrected himself. Sherlock and John shared their finances somehow, which John thought for the best, considering Sherlock seemed to pay as much attention to money matter as he did to female fashion.

“Don’t worry about it.” Sherlock patted John nicely on the head – _the head_ – before going to stand by the open window overlooking Baker Street.

“What do you mean, don’t worry about it?” John asked him, rather incensed. He had been counting all morning, he had shown Sherlock the numbers, how could he just tell him not to worry about it and be done with it? “We haven’t had a case in eleven days!”

“Another will come, I’m sure of it, especially considering the climbing viewing numbers on your blog.”

John didn’t let flattery convince him. “You can’t be certain about that.”

Sherlock sighed and observed the street a bit closer.

“I’m going to take some extra shifts at the clinic”, John mumbled, more to himself than to Sherlock.

“No, you won’t.” Sherlock didn’t even turn around, but his voice was hard and clear.

“O, I suppose I shall just wait here then until Mrs Hudson throws us out on the street?”

“She wouldn’t do that.”

“She should, the poor woman. We’re rarely make rent on time and considering the messes we’ve made –”

“John, please stop worrying about it.”

John squinted at Sherlock’s dressing gown-cladded back. “Do you have an economic back-up I don’t know about? You don’t have to tell me what it is, just make sure you can live on it. It’s actually not a bad idea if you’re taking money from Mycroft –”

“I’m not taking money from Mycroft!” Sherlock turned around, all at once annoyed. “And I would tell you if I had a back-up for this mess.”

John felt a bit of satisfaction when Sherlock admitted they were indeed in a mess. “Then why don’t you –”

“For Heaven’s sake, John,” Sherlock sighed, interrupting John once more, “just be quiet and come see.”

“What is there to see?” John got up from the sofa, both irritated at Sherlock being inconsiderate again and intrigued by what piqued his interest on the street.

Sherlock looked up when John joined him at the window, a merry twinkle in his eye. “Your chance to fatten up that money pig that is keeping us alive.”

John stood closer to the window, Sherlock a barely-there presence at his back, to stare down at their front door, where a sleek black car was parked. John half expected the driver to get up to open the door, but the right back door swung open by itself, giving way to a brown-haired woman. She closed the car door behind her and hopped quickly up the steps. A moment later the bell to their apartment was rung.


	2. The Gleam In Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Business time.

It turned out to be a very young woman, with hair somewhere between blond and brown, a toned figure and clothes that were simple but probably from expensive labels. She could have passed for a teenager – if she toned down the black eyeliner and red lips – were it not for her dirty blue-green eyes, the piercing quality of which John had only seen in Sherlock, although even this girl couldn’t come close to the fathomless depths Sherlock’s eyes brought with them.

“What is your name?” John asked, because after Mrs Hudson had let the woman in, sat her down in the chair opposite the sofa and offered her tea, a silence had settled over the room.

She smiled and nodded towards Sherlock. “Forgive me, but I would like to know how much Mr Holmes can deduce about me before I disclose more about myself.” Her voice was friendly enough, but the challenge in her words did not remain undetected.

John, knowing how insulting Sherlock could get once he got going and not wanting to lose the one client they’d had in a while, started saying, “Maybe it’s for the better if we just –”

“You’re twenty-three years old, with a post-graduate degree in something scientific from Oxbridge – my bet is on Oxford – and you’re rich, but not self-made.” Sherlock stood up from the couch where he and John had been sitting side by side and stepped closer to the woman – girl, really, John thought, despite her credentials – sitting on the coffee table to peer closer at her face, who seemed to observe him with a bored casualness.

“You’re an heiress, most likely, born and bred in riches. You’re a middle child, which made you very competitive growing up. You don’t get along with your mother, even though you love her something fierce and would probably do anything for her.” Sherlock looked from her face at her hands and back. “You don’t care about your appearance. Think makeup is time-consuming nuisance. You consider fashion an insipid waste of time. Yet…” Here Sherlock leaned back and smiled the smallest of smiles. “Yet you make a considerable effort to make your beauty stand out more than other women – most likely for the benefit of a … husband?” The last word came out slightly questioning and John shook himself out of the state of breathless witnessing he often seemed to slide into when Sherlock went on such a tangent.

“I’m not wearing a ring”, she said, a bit prickly. John couldn’t decide whether she was annoyed at Sherlock insinuating her appearance was counterfeit or because said appearance was the way it was for someone else’s benefit.

“Considering the state of your nails, I would say you regularly work with your hands. It would make sense for you to not wear a ring – you’re not even wearing any other jewellery.”

She briefly clenched her fists, hiding her nails, but then she relaxed again, with a pleased expression on her face.

“As for your name…” Sherlock stood up and came back to sit beside John on the sofa. “I’d say Elisabeth.”

“Charlotte”, she corrected him, still looking quite pleased. “Elisabeth is my mother’s name. Charlotte Costlier.”

“And you’re here because” Sherlock squinted his eyes at her “you lost something.”

“Quite correct.”

John glanced sideways to Sherlock and saw the intrigue in his eyes. He internally heaved a sigh of relief, knowing Sherlock didn’t think this case boring.

Charlotte took a cup of tea from Mrs Hudson’s tray and sipped at it, her hands folded around it. “Mr Holmes, Mr Watson, I know you probably hear this all the time, but I must insist on my utmost privacy. I have no choice but to trust you, seen the scale of my problem.” She sipped again, her eyes raking over both men while she spoke. “I’m convinced that you two are capable of dealing in a quick and clean way with the criminal element threatening me.”

John felt the need to assure her. “We have never let the secrets of our clients open for prying eyes or ears, Miss Costlier.”

“Please, call me Charlotte.”

“Very well.”

John felt Sherlock shift next to him, losing some of the unnecessary warmth that was created between their legs. He quickly said to Charlotte: “Could you start your story and tell us some relevant details, please?”

Charlotte threw her left leg over the other – a bad sign, John remembered Sherlock telling him – and sipped at her tea one more time before setting the cup down. “I own a company – Ludsor – that is on the brink of becoming an internet providing stronghold. My father set the groundwork for it during the eighties and nineties, but he got distracted and invested in petroleum instead. Ludsor got a little bit neglected, because the oil business was making us so much money, so Dad decided to just give it to me when I turned sixteen – at the time the legal age at which you were allowed into the trading game.”

“You got a company for your sweet sixteen?” John couldn’t help himself but comment. It all seemed so absurd.

“John”, Sherlock spoke softly.

“I understand your surprise”, Charlotte interjected. “Even though the company was hardly functioning, it was still registered on the exchange for several million pounds. I don’t think my father gave me Ludsor with the idea of gifting me a simple present. He wanted me to have some experience with economic distress. He was convinced Ludsor was headed to the ground.” She smiled for a moment, softening her features considerably. “ _One learns to swim best aboard a sinking ship_. That’s what he used to say.”

“So Ludsor went down the drain?” John questioned sympathetically.

“Don’t be daft, John.” Sherlock slapped him on the thigh, making John jump. “Ludsor is worth about 1.7 billion pounds nowadays.”

John wanted to protest Sherlock’s insult and his physical reaction, but his brain got stuck on the number. “1.7 billion?” He looked unbelievingly at Charlotte. “Then how come I’d never heard of it until this moment?”

“Have you heard of Sogou? Jawbone? Stripe?” Charlotte asked. “Or of Woodman Labs? Palantir? Zalando? It’s all about what you come in contact with Mr Watson.”

“Well, I know about Zalando”, John muttered, a bit annoyed at coming over as the dumb-dumb of the situation once again.

“But I bet you also know about any kind, type or origin of no matter what mortar, rifle or gun used in the British army.” Charlotte said, as if sensing his mood. “I know you’re ex-military because of your blog.”

John smiled. “So you turned Ludsor around. How, if I may ask?”

“It was no easy feat”, said Charlotte, but she was smiling broadly, “The first thing I did was get it off the stock exchange. You can’t treat a sick company while everyone is still prodding at it. Then I did deconstruction. Any part of it that wasn’t needed or threatened to become obsolete, I got rid of. It was no simple feat. Imagine sucking fat out of a toddler, that’s how complex it all became. It took me months to find a healthy frame on which I could build up the enterprise I really wanted. I was eighteen by the time Ludsor was fully functioning, efficient and realizing considerable profit.”

“After which you specialized in astronomic software, cut a deal with NASA, ISS and Roscosmos, effectively making you one of the richest entrepreneurs of Britain.” Sherlock was clearly getting impatient with the story.

“And India”, Charlotte reminded him, with no apology for his annoyance. “The last two years we’ve been working hard to write a programme that will allow us to offer internet faster and cheaper than any known provider in and out of Britain. If all goes to schedule, we should launch publicly on the first of December.”

“How are you going to offer faster and cheaper internet than we already have?” Sherlock asked, one eyebrow creeping to his hairline. “What we have already is quite ingenious.”

Charlotte waved her hand impatiently to dismiss Sherlock’s words. “That’s because you don’t know any better, Mr Holmes. Don’t look at me like that, you know it too. How many times has it happened that the internet simply stopped working, that you’ve been phoning the provider for hours without any result, instead getting the message that there will be a technician at your place soon? You should not be waiting for pages to load anymore, they should just _be_ there when you ask for it.” She suddenly leaned forward in the chair. “Do you have _any_ idea of the size of the growing middle class in African countries like Nigeria, Chad, Mozambique, hell, even Ethiopia? They want internet, they have internet, but the quality of it leaves so much to be desired.” She leaned back again. “If Ludsor can be the one to offer better internet, to a lower price, but to a market bigger than any internet provider has ever reached, do you realize what kind of money flow that could sustain?”

John was more than a bit taken aback by their client’s sudden outburst of plans. Even though everything she said sounded logical and potentially genius, there was something underneath her talking about her plans, something akin to greed, but not quite the same thing. It made John a bit uncomfortable, in the sense that he seemed to have a few pebbles in his stomach that were keeping him for his meals.

He chanced a look at Sherlock. His flatmate was sitting on the edge of the couch, the noon sun touching lightly on his dark hair and illuminating hazelnut strands. However, what John saw on his face made the pebbles in his stomach dissolve almost instantly. To the eye of the casual beholder, Sherlock was completely engrossed in Charlotte and her tale, but John was not a casual beholder. Charlotte would never see it, because she didn’t know Sherlock like he did, but to John it was as clear as day. Under the mask of semi-polite attentiveness lay a hint of mild disgust, a face Sherlock would usually reserve for a crease in his coat or a typo in a text from Lestrade.

“Where do we come in?” He asked, blue eyes never leaving hers.

“For the launch to work properly, we need to activate the satellites –”

“You lost a satellite?!” John had no idea how Sherlock would go about retrieving an item that big, certainly she should have alerted ISS or something.

“No.” Charlotte had a hit of amusement on her face. “It’s not the satellites I lost. They’re rather big, John.”

“Sure, sure.” John wished he wouldn’t blush anymore, he was too old for it, damnit.

“In order to keep third parties out of my system, I developed a few lines – well, a lot of lines – of code to block and destroy any attempt at access that isn’t me personally or someone I have communicated the code to.” Charlotte closed her eyes briefly and opened them again. “You commented earlier that I wasn’t wearing any jewellery, Mr Holmes. If you had met me two days ago, you’d have noticed a golden necklace with a pendant in the shape of a painter’s canvas. The pendant was in fact a USB station that held that peculiar part of vital code.” She took her cup of tea again, even though it must have been cold. “I need you to find the pendant – and the necklace if possible – and return it to me. And I want you to find out the name of every single person who as much as touched it between me having it and you retrieving it.”

*

“What do you think?” John asked Sherlock the minute Charlotte had left. “It seems like an impossible job.”

“Not impossible.” Sherlock stood up again, closing his dressing gown more tightly against his body. He made his way to the window in silence and started observing the street again.

Knowing when not to disturb a thoughtful Sherlock Holmes, John started gathering the tea tray to take it downstairs to Mrs Hudson, meanwhile replaying the entire conversation with Charlotte Costlier in his mind. If he was completely honest with himself he had to admit the young woman scared him. It was something about the way she carried herself, clearly fed with love and entitlement that made her more confident and larger than some middle-aged men John had met in his life. She was fascinating and she was certainly passionate, but during their short acquaintance she had given him the distinct feeling that she did not know what boundaries were, or, if she did know, that she didn’t care about them at all.

The case was bound to bring some money their way though. John dropped the tea-set off with Mrs Hudson and started back on the stairs. God knew they could use it. Although, it wasn’t like they’d be starving on the street if they skipped this one, but it gave them some more leeway, which was always welcome. John really, really hoped Sherlock was all for helping Charlotte out.

The stairs creaked while he while walked them, but his knee didn’t. Apparently his distrust of their client was enough to make his body get itself out of the gutter. He paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, seeing Sherlock through the open door of their floor. He was still standing by the window. John had to look into direct light to see him, so he mostly just perceived his silhouette and the lighter colour his hair took on in sunlight.

“Do close the door, John, there’s enough of a draft going on already.”

John shook himself out of his reverie and entered their apartment, shutting the door behind him. “Well?” he asked. “Are we taking this one on?”

Sherlock suddenly turned around, stalked over to where John was standing by the wall and grabbed his face in two large, warm hands. “John Watson, not only are we taking this one on, we are going to have so much fun solving it your blog entry will double your views, I assure you.”

John had some trouble focusing with Sherlock’s hands on either side of his face. When Sherlock shook him slightly in his enthusiasm, he quickly covered his hands with his own. “We just have to find a necklace, Sherlock, don’t get too excited.”

Sherlock froze and looked down at John’s squished face. “My dear John, you have no idea. These type of people, these – these people who have so much money at their disposal they are forced to get creative on how to spend it – it is never just one thing with them. You just wait, John, you just wait. We look for a necklace, we’ll end with two solved murders and a saved damsel in distress.”

Sherlock must have seen some of the incredulousness on John’s face, because he briefly slid his thumbs over the corner of his mouth, before squeezing his neck and finally letting go, leaving John feeling weirdly bereft. “Just follow my lead, John”, he said softly. “Just follow my lead.”

The next moment Sherlock had stepped away to start typing on his laptop. John blinked confusedly at the living room before joining Sherlock behind the fifteen inch screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter asap. Keep an eye out.


	3. Once Upon A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Observation time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Penis.

John woke the next morning to the soft clatter of rain on the roof. When he turned around on his other side he could see the drops sliding over the glass of the window in a crisscross pattern. Yesterday’s breeze had become a series of irregular gusts that made a gentle wail at the top of his roof. John, still in that slumber right before the restoring of full consciousness, listened with half lidded eyes to the bad weather and momentarily duck deeper under his duvet. Sherlock had sent him early to bed the previous night, while picking up his violin and announcing that he had some thinking to do. John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock had already solved the case just by thinking about it.

A small smile pulled at John’s mouth corner when he thought about Sherlock’s state the night before. He’d had that happy twinkle in his eyes and high on his cheekbones John had been able to discern a slight, almost pinkish blush. That, combined with his feverish hand gestures, had given him an almost preternatural appearance.

Remembering Miss Costlier’s case, John made a move to come out of bed, but he stopped moving with an almost inaudible groan when he felt the weight of his cock on his thigh. It almost took him by surprise how sensitive he suddenly was, before remembering that he’d been cooped up in the flat for about a week with only grocery runs to get him out, thus limiting his contact with anyone, let alone potential dates.

Still, he’d been almost happy like this. If it weren’t for the money matters, John would have just continued living in Sherlock’s pocket, only worrying about when or where Sherlock would become bored. However, his body reminded him rather crudely that Sherlock’s friendship might be dear to John, it certainly didn’t take care of every aspect of his life.

With a lazy sigh, John slid his trousers and pants down to his upper thighs, prompting chills to run horizontally between his shoulder blades. He should probably use some lube, but he was honestly too lethargic to turn all the way back around to retrieve it from his nightstand. He would just quickly take care of this, so he could go downstairs and hear what Sherlock had planned for them today. His cock gave an imperceptible jerk at the thought of Sherlock barging in on John because he thought John was taking too long. John pressed the palm of his hand against his penis, as if willing it to stay down for just a moment longer.

It wouldn’t do to think about Sherlock while rubbing one out. It would be unfair to his friend, especially considering John almost knew for certain that Sherlock was uninterested in matters of the flesh.

And, to be completely honest, John didn’t feel like complicating his own life, especially not at his age. What he had with Sherlock was good, and rare, and not a lot of grown men could pride themselves on a friendship as unique as theirs. It didn’t matter if John occasionally wondered what Sherlock’s long, warm fingers could do, or how he would look like in the dim light of his bedroom, not wearing any clothes. Or how his lips would feel underneath John’s.

This time John had to stifle his groan with his hand over his mouth. Damn. He had to get this over with, and quick. With his shoulders hunched in, as if to protect himself, he started stroking his cock rhythmically. With his face pressed half into the pillow, his brain had ample opportunity to summon his favourite fodder. Women in short skirts, with plunging necklines they allowed him to explore. Soft skin and small waists, small hips and dark curls, the flat plains of an abdomen, flowing into an Adonis belt who’s V made way for a pale cock –

John gave up. He would contemplate the immorality of his actions at a later point. It was too late now. Picking up the pace, up and down, he thought about how Sherlock would sometimes just touch him; light touches that swarmed John’s brain with unbidden hope. He remembered all too well how reserved Sherlock was in those first few months, his distance from John, only crossing that bridge through curiosity. And now, after two years, Sherlock saw it fit to touch John whenever he saw fit, to hug him, sidle closely past him. To invade his personal space.

Up. Down. Up. Do –. Stutter. Down. Up. Flick of the thumb. Over the head. Down. Press –

John closed his eyes as he felt a beautiful wet sputter spread on his fingers, allowing himself a temporary thought-free, guilt-free, pain-free twenty seconds before trying to catch his breath.

Sweet Lord.

*

Sitting next to Sherlock in the back of another sleek black car, John decided to get a hold of himself – no pun intended – and put his own confused wishes behind him. Sherlock had barely given him the time to shower and get dressed before he had whisked John down the stairs and into a waiting car. At first John thought this was one of Mycroft’s car, but one look at Sherlock’s satisfied face told him otherwise.

“So, what’s the plan?” John asked, trying his best to sound grown-up and unaffected.

Sherlock turned his head to face him pensively. “We’re on our way to Headquarters.”

“Headquarters?”

“Ludsor Headquarters.”

Sherlock didn’t explain further.

“Anything I need to keep an eye out for?” John didn’t want to ask to many questions, on the off chance of frustrating Sherlock, but he did need something to do if he was going to give his brain some other occupation rather than what had happened in his bed that morning.

“Yes.”

“Like…?”

“Everything.”

John sighed deeply. Sherlock was miles ahead of him on this case already and it looked more and more like he was going to be left to his own devices to try and keep up. Outside the window London passed by. It had stopped raining, but the sky was still rather grey and threatening. This was weather to stay home to, under a blanket and with a cup of tea and a good book.

“According to her Instagram, she did not have the necklace when she arrived at a party in SoHo. The next step of our plan is to determine when the last time was that she used it.”

“What time was the party?” John quickly probed, not losing time with expressing his surprise at Sherlock knowing of social media, let alone Instagram.

“It seemed to have started around twelve, but our client didn’t arrive until twelve thirty.” Sherlock took out his phone and started tapping away on it.

“At night?” John couldn’t keep his voice from getting slightly incredulous.

“Yes.”

“Bloody young people.”

Sherlock turned his phone and showed John a picture. It was Charlotte Costlier, surrounded by some three or four other women, all of them toasting to somebody off screen. Charlotte was wearing a deep green top (blouse?) that left her throat and neckline rather bare.

“No necklace”, John remarked.

“Exactly.” Sherlock swiped left and showed him some more pictures, but John studied his face instead.

“Why are we going to Ludsor HQ?”

Sherlock put away his phone and leaned back in his seat. “Time frame determination.”

“Ah.” John leaned back too. He assumed Sherlock was not telling him everything he knew, but that was business as usual. If Sherlock Holmes wanted him to focus on something specific, John Watson damn well would.

*

On the outside Ludsor Headquarters looked like any other big building of steel and glass at the centre of London’s business district. The streets were full of men and women in suits, some walking and eating, some texting or mailing and some even talking loudly on the phone. If it weren’t for the small gold plaque at the entrance of the building declaring this _Ludsor Inc. London division_ John would have walked straight passed it.

The inside though… the inside was a sight to behold. The foyer – or what John assumed to be the foyer – was as high as the building itself. The see-through ceiling was some seventeen floors above them, leaving John to feel tinier than he’d ever had in his life. In the middle of the light filled atrium was a massive statue that seemed to be made out of inox, or something else steely and shiny. John couldn’t make out what it was supposed to be – a bunch of cables forming a cone together. Or something.

“John.”

He looked around and saw Sherlock already at the stairs on their left, waiting impatiently for John to keep up. By the time John had made it to his flatmate, a woman in a summery dress with a lab coat on top of it had greeted him. “You must be Mr Watson”, she said, and stuck out a hand for him to shake, which he did. “My name is Daliah Efrat, Human Resources. I’m here to take you up to Miss Costlier’s office.”

“Pleased to meet you”, John politely said. He followed Miss Efrat up the broad stairs to a lift – thank God – and watched her hit one of the topmost buttons before the doors closed.

Sherlock didn’t say anything and he also didn’t seem to want to make small talk, so John took it upon himself to ask: “Have you been working here for long?”

“Well, no”, Miss Efrat smiled. “But none of us have. The company is only seven years old and Miss Costlier didn’t start actively recruiting personnel until about five years ago.”

“She’s done tremendous work on a short time.” John kept observing the woman and was rewarded with a slight pinching of her lips, before her face smoothed out again.

“She certainly has. And we’re all confident that she will do even more in the time to come.”

A small ping announced their arrival on the sixteenth floor. Sherlock and John followed Miss Efrat down an airy corridor to an office that was bustling with people. Charlotte Costlier stood at the centre of it all, leaning back against her desk, waving around a blue pen to write, scratch and sign on documents that were being presented to her at an almost superhuman speed. She was talking to a man next to her at the same time and the guy nodded and tapped away on his tablet almost as fast as she was talking.

She caught sight of him and Sherlock fairly quickly – John had no idea how she still had headspace left for observation – and gave them a welcoming nod. She stepped away from her desk and said: “Right. Guys, you know what to do. I’ll see you at two. Russell, get Legal to send me the new contracts before tomorrow, would you.”

Slowly, her office emptied itself of its content, leaving a well-illuminated, slightly too large space in its wake. “Thank you, Daliah, that’ll be all.” She went to sit in the big chair behind her desk and gestured at the chairs in front of it. “Please, gentlemen, take a seat.”

John sat down, but Sherlock remained standing, eyes on the man in the corner.

“I think we should keep our conversations private from here on now”, said Sherlock, tonelessly, but the man still squinted his eyes at him. Contrary to most of the employees they’d seen today, this man was wearing a full three-piece suit with tie and cufflinks. He was also the oldest person in the building, it seemed.  

Charlotte looked Sherlock over once, but complied. “I’m sorry, Will. We’ll pick up where we left off first thing tomorrow.”

“Very well.” Will grabbed closed his file and left the office, leaving the door open.

Sherlock closed it and then sat down in the chair next to John.

“Good morning –”

“When was the last time you put your USB stick in a port?” Sherlock interrupted her, disregarding both John’s silent sigh and her raised eyebrow.

“Saturday afternoon. I can get you the exact moment.” She turned to her computer and clicked her mouse around a bit. “Here.” She turned the screen towards them and pointed. “Saturday at six sixteen.”

“From here?” Sherlock pressed.

“No, from home. But I think I still had it before I left that night.”

“What makes you say that?” prompted John.

Charlotte looked him straight in the face. “Because my boyfriend would have noticed.”

“It was a gift from him?” John inquired, but Sherlock rolling his eyes was answer enough.

“Of course it was a gift from him, John. Try to keep up.”

John felt a slight tension in his jaws, but managed to control himself in front of Charlotte. “How much do you trust your boyfriend?”

“With my life”, Charlotte said immediately. “It wasn’t him.”

“We can’t know that for sure –”

“Yes, we can.” She said, voice ice cold. “It was not him.”

John chanced a look at Sherlock and saw his face scrunching up. Before letting him alienate her completely, John quickly said: “It is nothing personal from our part, Charlotte. Honestly. We just have to look at the case from all angles.”

“I understand that, but I can assure you that looking in his direction won’t get you anything.”

John suppressed another sigh. Thankfully Sherlock took over.

“You said you used the stick at home?” he asked.

“Yes, I have a fully functioning work station that allows me to get things done without having to come in every day.” She smiled briefly. “The beauty of owning your own business.”

“I hear you”, John said, thinking about how he and Sherlock treated the shared living room as some kind of unofficial practice to receive clients.

“We need to go to your home.” Sherlock stood up, apparently expecting to be driven there in an instant.

Charlotte blinked a few times and stood up as well. “If you insist. Let’s go.” She picked up her coat and paused outside her office. “Sean, dispatch my calls, I need to go home for a second.”

John assumed the man at the desk outside the big office who had been typing furiously was her secretary. He briefly wondered what kind of life it would be, working for a rich, young IT-genius, but when he looked up and saw Sherlock and Charlotte already at the end of the corridor, he quickly jogged to keep up with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think. Next chapter coming soon.


End file.
